


solace in your own thoughts- snapshots of life

by roymustangs_slightlydecrepit_fiat500



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Alternate Universe - His Dark Materials Fusion, Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, F/F, F/M, I Don't Even Know, I suppose?, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Kinda dark I guess, M/M, Maes Hughes Lives, Not Canon Compliant, POV Alternating, POV Second Person, Same-Sex Daemons, Self-Hatred, edling - Freeform, idk how to tag characters but they have daemons?, me thinking of a his dark materials/fma au and then realising its gonna be really complicated, omg a serious fic wtf, there will be more tags I promise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:27:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27089359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roymustangs_slightlydecrepit_fiat500/pseuds/roymustangs_slightlydecrepit_fiat500
Summary: Exactly what it says on the tin- scenes from the lives of the Fullmetal Alchemist characters and how I interpret their parts in the series, but a crossover with the His Dark Materials series.Probably not canon compliant ngl so uhh if there are continuity errors with the plot don't hesitate to correct me! :3
Relationships: Alphonse Elric & Edward Elric, Alphonse Elric & Winry Rockbell, Edward Elric & Winry Rockbell, Edward Elric/Ling Yao, Gracia Hughes/Maes Hughes, Maes Hughes & Roy Mustang, Riza Hawkeye/Roy Mustang, Trisha Elric/Van Hohenheim
Comments: 12
Kudos: 17





	1. Edward

**Author's Note:**

> well here we go! I had the idea for this au when reading the book of dust a few nights ago, and was thinking about all the possible dæmons for the FMA characters, so I decided to write it down.
> 
> I didn't realise until writing this how complicated this is gonna be, especially with the importance of souls in FMA and dæmons in His Dark materials  
> like are philosophers stones made of separated dæmons? what's the deal with Hohenheim with his 536329 souls? how many dæmons would he have? complicated shit.
> 
> anyway this was really fun to write, and such an interesting concept so here we go!

_June, 1914_

You growl as you run, Ysolthe curled in the form of a field mouse as she hisses directions into your ears. Blood roars in your head as your feet pound on the pavement, and you turn a corner. You don’t remember what you are running from at this point, only _left left right straight turn run run run get away scar_ as your dæmon hisses at you, obeying silently with heavy breaths as you try and evade the impending danger.

Too late.

The sound of a crane’s guttural cry screeches behind you, and you don’t even see the arm stretching out towards you as a familiar crackle fills the air.

———

You feel- well, Ysolthe feels a sharp pecking at her fur. You open your eyes to see Alphonse leaning over you, his dæmon engaging in hushed discussion with yours. The adrenaline rush fades out and pain sears through your joints, just above your automail. Ysolthe is in her typical form- a Tasmanian devil. She nuzzles against your chest, whispering reprimands at the pain she is forced to endure, and a pang of guilt sears through you. Damn. For a second, her admonishments and self-righteous tone reminds you of the colonel, and you realise he’s gonna find out what the hell you’ve been doing sooner or later.

Well speak of the devil. Mustang walks over, his Irish wolfhound dæmon trotting a pace behind him, remnants of sparks playing around his fingertips. You sigh internally as you prepare for his lecture- your dæmon gives you a look.

“What the hell are you playing at, Fullmetal. Chasing after serial killers in the dead of night? You could have got killed.” You huff out a cynical laugh, refusing to give into his admonishment.

“The hell you chasing me for? Trying to play the hero part again, huh?” He flinches, and you feel a sense of satisfaction at striking a nerve. The dog at his feet (Vera, you remember) growls in a low tone. Ysolthe strikes a glare at you, and addresses the colonel.

“We apologise. It was reckless behaviour.”

“Like hell we do. We got closer to stopping him than any of you useless bastards have done in months.”

“ _We apologise._ ”

He seems satisfied, at the least. Mustang smirks, and another voice breaks the awkward silence that is beginning to descend.

“Should we head back? It’s getting cold out. I know you can’t stand cold weather and rain, Roy,” Riza asks, seeming to come out of nowhere. She does that a lot and it sort of creeps you out, in all honesty.

There’s a softness in her voice? You can’t quite place it, but it’s there. It’s only present when she speaks with Mustang. A certain hesitation of her words, a calmness in the tone of her voice that changes from emotionless and levelheaded in the heat of battle to almost caring? You will never understand them, and what they are to each other.

As Riza stares at Roy, you take that as an exit point, biting your tongue to avoid the pain of your injuries as Alphonse indignantly runs after you.

You decide to crash at Maes’ place again, knowing he won’t ask any questions. You knock on his door after- hell knows, 30 seconds, twenty minutes of running. A light flickers into life in an upstairs window, and you hear pawpads on the stairs gradually approaching.

Gracia opens the door to her brief surprise, and a warm smile spreads across her face as she gestures to come in. You oblige, relishing in the warmth of the house.

“Edward, Alphonse, what brings you here at this time? I didn’t know you were planning to visit, especially past midnight.” You hastily check the clock on her wall.

“Oh, god, I didn’t realise it was this late, sorry ma’am. We got caught up in military stuff, chasing serial killers, you know how it is. Sorry for disturbing you.” She laughs at your humble tone, and yawns, her tiger-dæmon filling in the words for her.

“It’s no problem. Maes and Zinnia get home at ridiculous hours all the time. Besides, we haven’t seen you in a while. Come on in, you can stay for the night.”

You and Alphonse profusely thank them, before allowing Gracia to show you to a spare room, Alphonse declining in preference to sleep downstairs. You slump onto the bed, eyes open, staring into nothingness. Your eyes flicker to Ysolthe lying beside you, in the form of a rat on your pillow. The thought of dæmons fils your head.

It’s not uncommon to think about, especially for teenagers; the idea of your dæmon settling is simultaneously exciting and unnerving. You remember when you were just a little kid, and the thought of Ysolthe being restricted from transforming into a bird, then a beetle, then a cat, filled you with fear. You’ve come to accept it mutually, though, and you tend to talk about it with her a lot. Like hell she’s gonna become a dog- the phrase ‘dogs of the military’ often runs true and people often end up settling that way. You think it’s bullshit. How the hell are dæmons gonna know, like for people who joined the military after they settled? Still, it often ends up a self-fulfilling prophecy like that. But not you- screw that. You plan to get your brother’s body back and get the hell out of there before you turn 18- seems easy enough.

You don’t want to be in the military any more than Alphonse wants to be stuck in his armour- both cold, unforgiving prisons on your lives, you think. Better to get out before the blood is on your hands, leaving only your own mistakes to clear from your conscience. Better to plague your own life with worry and guilt than to inflict it on others. You would die if it meant that the people you wanted to protect would be happy.

Your thoughts stray to Alphonse and Winry. They’ve always been so sure of themselves, so grounded in their emotions and decisions. You can tell from their dæmons- how Winry’s has always been feline when not needed in another form for a given reason. Like when he becomes a monkey when Winry works on automail, so he can use his opposable simian thumbs to their advantage. He always seems to be a ginger tom whenever they don’t need to work with metal. Or a lizard, a gecko basking in the Resembool sunshine. Al’s, Aeoleus, has always seemed to be a bird. Whether a pigeon (like his usual form) or an eagle, he’s always insisted on having wings, floating as far into the boundless sky as their bond will allow. Chough, jackdaw, heron, hawk. Always changing, yet always the same. It really makes you think, how it seems even more ironic now he’s bound to that cold lump of metal, because of that stupid, foolish mistake that you cant take back. The mistake that cost you your limbs and Al his body. If he longed for freedom even before, you can’t imagine how restricted he must feel, trapped in that unforgiving, heavy suit of armour bearing the weight of your mistake.

The thought burns a hole in your heart.

“Stop it. You know it depresses both of us when you think about it, but every night I sit here and have to hear your thoughts. Think about something funny for a change. Or go the hell to sleep. I don’t care,” Ysolthe says, derailing your train of thought with her sharp tone. You send a mental image of you rolling her eyes and she bristles, turning around in irritation.

“Fine.”

You think, again pondering your childhood, and a memory comes to the front of your mind. You were about six or seven, and you were watching the birds soar in the sky when an idea struck you. Ysolthe transformed into a dragon- the largest flying animal you could think of, having seen them in the books your moter used to read to you. She was large, a great red thing with tough, ridged scales and a sleek form, yetstill young and clumsy (like you, you think in retrospect). She took hold of you in her claws and rose upwards, 20 metres in the air, maybe 30. It wasn’t long before she couldn’t withstand the weight and you began sinking downwards, her wings flapping in an effort not to fall, but the image of the view from up there felt like nothing you had ever seen before. To a six year old, a height of that magnitude feels like you are touching the sky.

Now it comes flooding back to you, you remember that day like it was yesterday.

A wave of melancholy floods over you unexpectedly.

“Nine years, huh,” Ysolthe soliloquises, her voice thick with exhaustion. “Doesn’t feel like it. Weird.”

“Yeah,” you agree. “Whatever, let’s get some sleep. Don’t wanna be overtired tomorrow.” You close your eyes, and the ticking of the clock from the corridor slows your racing thoughts, like a metronome.


	2. Hohenheim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An insight into the life of Van Hohenheim, through the eyes of my FMAB/His Dark Materials crossover AU.
> 
> This is COMPLETELY different to what I originally wanted for this chapter, but its the only thing I had any inspiration to write lol, so im sorry for changing the plot randomly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im so sorry I havent updated in a month! writers block and lack of motivation go brr
> 
> this was so fun to write, I have literally no clue if this counts as angst or not but uhh I tagged it as such because I think so? anyway yay writing
> 
> Also im only two comments in and the title is redundant as this is No Longer Just The Resembool Trio  
> so yeas im gonna change that

The sudden wall of silence is deafening. Alchemical crackling dissipates into nothingness, and your eyes dim from the brightness of the transmutation to see a room littered with bodies. Sheer horror wells up inside your chest and you want to scream, opening your mouth to silence. Your mind seems to block out what the homunculus says as he speaks, sheer denial and sickening horror crushing your chest and filling your head. Over a million people, dead from your own naïvety. Over a million people, their lives cut prematurely short. And you, a lonely man, forced to walk the earth forever bearing the weight of your irredeemable transgressions. 

You’re no stranger to death and suffering. You’ve seen people beaten and killed, the light fading from their eyes as their dæmons dissipated into dust, the way people could flicker in and out of lives like a capricious flame that extinguishes into nothing with the smallest breeze. You vowed, each time, to never extinguish another person’s life, to never cross the line between life and death, to never take another person’s existence into your hands. Somewhere in your soul you knew that this was a lie you told yourself, a temporary reassurance despite the inevitability of killing, the split second decision where the choice was between your life or theirs.

But you never imagined it like this. 

An entire nation brought from prosperity into nonexistence through the actions of one man and his advisor, the dwarf in the flask which fed you lies of wealth and fame, and like a fool you believed him. Now you are like a caged animal, backed into a corner with no way to reverse the damage of your crazed, power-hungry actions. Less than a day ago, Xerxes was on its way to becoming a successful nation, a land of relative peace where hopefully those in more fortuitous situations than you could prosper. Now, you look out of the window and see a dead city, lost dæmons prowling the streets and baying.

But how? Weren’t the people’s souls taken in that vast alchemical array? Wouldn’t the dæmons be reduced to nothingness as well? Unless this is what he meant, the homunculus who described a pair of immortal beings made up of the souls of Xerxes. No. He can’t. 

But he did.

Noise fills your ears as the gravity of what you have done to Xerxes and to yourself finally settles on you.

Oh, what to do with the guilt inside your heart? The pounding, crushing guilt that fills your mind with each waking moment, much like the constant hum of your dæmons, low, innocuous but always present. The murmur of the souls bound to you, without a purpose or even a presence.

Your dæmons, all 536,329 of them. They cower at your approach, the stream of constant thought and emotion that floods your mind like a maelstrom, pulsating flickering thoughts full of disgust, fear and hate. They swarm around you, a constantly changing mass of fireflies, bluebottles, mosquitos straining as far away from you as the bonds will allow, like psychological shackles that bind you to your sins forever. The image of your dwarf in the flask, the homunculus that inevitably bears the same weight and consequences as you flashes through your mind and sickens you, a wave of dread sinking into your veins.

A strange satisfaction comes to your mind; you want him to experience the same hell as you, but conflicting emotions clash in your already crowded mind. A ‘hell’ may be an adequate way to describe it, but what right have you to describe it s such when you are responsible for all your dæmons’ suffering? If what you are experiencing is a hell, then what is it for them, what is it for the thousands of souls ripped away from their physical forms and human companions? The yin taken from the yang through the force of a foolish man who believed he could cheat the ways of the universe?

You reflect on your reckless youth and consider that you were truly an Icarus. You feel the agony of the sun as your wings burn, the delusions of grandeur that you were lead to believe pulling you down into the ocean of guilt, just as Icarus tried to cheat the very laws of physics.

Who is Van Hohenheim, anyway? When did you stop being him, and start to become just an unwitting pawn of the homunculus? Now you have the souls of thousands of other people, the question is even harder to answer.

Never again will you put your full trust into someone, never again will you harm another person. From now on, your life is dedicated to repaying your transgressions and to connect with the souls that you stole. You vow not to let yourself fall into trust and break that trust with regret.

But you do.

Trisha is beautiful and perfect, a spark of joy and optimism in a world jaded by your experiences and the monotony of eternal life. She is free and sincere, and loving in a way that you haven’t felt in your life, despite the genuine bonds you have made with each dæmon in your soul. She loves you in a way that you never knew you needed, and you love her so wholeheartedly that living without her seems pointless.

The birth of your sons is pure joy, a sense of happiness and love that makes your world ten times brighter. Edward and Alphonse and Trisha, your two children and wife who you would protect with your existence. Which makes it harder to bear when you force yourself to leave for their sake. For a split second as you slam the door shut on the Resembool night, you feel as if a person separated from their dæmon would, then instantly feel a sense of loathing for the thought. What right do you have for the thought of experiencing something you put countless others through. But nonetheless, you step forward, knowing the inevitable consequences that would arise if you dared to allow your weakness to show, to stay with them against the greater good.

When you meet her at her grave for the final time, it feels as though half of your soul is being reunited with the other. Never again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally answered my questions in the last chapter about Hohenheim and his 63736846487326 daemons, so uhh yeah
> 
> please leave a comment or kudos if you liked this!! :33


	3. Edward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Have some Edling content!!!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh look its me again

Sometimes you wish you could be shocked at your sudden age, suddenly growing up like all the other kids in Resembool. But that never happened. You were forced to become an adult, for both your and Al’s sake, and you remember every bit of it. You suppose it was necessary, after everything that happened; vulnerability or dependency was not an option if you wanted Alphonse to be happy. But sometimes you wish that you and Ysolthe had time to be a child for once. An immature thought, and you’re well aware of that. But still. You can’t help but wish that your life had been anywhere near normal. Staring into your mug of tea, you catch the reflection of your despondent expression.

You’re instantly snapped out of your thoughts as Ysolthe slaps you, crawling onto your shoulder in the form of a lemur.

“What the hell was that for?”

“Shut up. I’m your dæmon, now stop reminiscing already. You’re making me depressed as well, and you need to stop with the gloominess. It’s pissing me off, and I just know that you’re gonna do that thing where you start taking responsibility for everything. Knock it off Edward, I feel bad about things as well but you don’t need to pretend that every wrongdoing in Amestris is your responsibility.”

“The hell are you talking about? Acting like you know everything about me?”

“I’m your dæmon, Ed, I do know everything about you. Literally.”

You can’t fault that argument.

“…Touché.”

“And ‘everything’ includes Ling, as well.” You splutter, choking on your tea and glaring, red-faced, at Ysolthe. She smirks, shifting forms into a grey moth that flits around your shoulder. “What? Let me restart. Hi, Edward, _I’m your dæmon_ , I know literally everything about you. I know who you like _because we’re the same person_. Besides, we’re obvious as hell.”

You refuse to dignify that with a response.

Of course the universe is conspiring against you (when, you wonder, is it not?), and Ling chooses that moment to walk over, his wildcat-dæmon prowling smugly with the air of a cat who has not only found the cream, but has discovered that cows contain both cream and meat in one. A cat smug in its own realisation, without coming to the conclusion that cows simply _do not work like that_. You sigh.

“Hey, Edward, as I am such a loving and caring friend, would you agree that it is within the spirit of _equivalent exchange_ to return the favour, no?” His voice drips with ingratiation, and the rush of conflicting emotions such as _Jesus Christ does he ever shut up_ and _oh my stars his hair looks so soft and nice and I want to stroke it_ makes you want to scream.

“What do you want, Ling?”

He continues, unperturbed.

“As an alchemist, I assume you would consider equivalent exchange one of the true laws of the world.”

“Not when it comes to asshole arrogant princes.”

“I’m sure you could make en exception, since you clearly value our friendship so much. You clearly cared enough to save me when we were stuck inside Gluttony’s stomach, so I’m sure you are’t as cold as you like to make people think. I know you don’t hate me, don’t you Edward?” He smirks at you and you blush. If only he knew what he was saying.

“What do you want, Ling?” At this point he is sprawling out next to you, his eyes staring into yours in a ridiculously pleading manner. You avert your gaze, pointedly looking away from both his sycophantic gaze and Ysolthe’s knowing smirk, trying and failing to hide the rush of blood seeping up your face.

“I may or may not have spent all of my money on food.”

For the second time in ten minutes, you find yourself unable and unwilling to respond to that.

He grabs your hand between his, and your breath catches in your throat. You feel your heart pound as he stares at you with wide, longing eyes, and you feel like a scene from your mother’s romance novels that you mistook for alchemy books as a kid. Up close, his hair looks even softer.

You realise how immensely ridiculous this situation is, and immediately turn away, yelling something about ‘take the bloody money and stop bugging me, idiot prince’ as Ysolthe shoots you a glare.

**Author's Note:**

> next chapter im gonna think about alphonse and how the transmutation would affect him and his dæmon (and maybe introduce Edling)
> 
> this is probably just gonna be a bunch of one shots that are connected to each other, so I can't wait to figure out how this is gonna go


End file.
